


wherever we end up is home

by freloux



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Awkwardness, Cunnilingus, F/M, Fantasizing, Finger Sucking, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 04:58:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5484383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freloux/pseuds/freloux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not flirting. Why would it be flirting?</p>
            </blockquote>





	wherever we end up is home

Most of the time he's just a confused child. He doesn't understand why someone wouldn't want to go somewhere - anywhere - with him. There's the whole universe and it's just waiting. Come _on_. Let's go. He lingers impatiently at the entrance to her kitchen, trying to get Clara to move.

But there's something different about her today. Her face isn't drawn in. She's not wearing those bizarre shoes. She looks closer to the Clara that he always sees. The Clara essence, something like an aura, that she carries around by default. Usually she hides it underneath tiny skirts and smart remarks, but now it's just...out there. It's vaguely unsettling. Even her eyes look smaller right now. They're registering twelve different emotions at once and he just can't process it. So he does what he usually does, which is bluster out something that, in his language, would probably register as helpful. "There's a sandstorm out in the farther reaches of the galaxy. D'you want to see it?"

She says "Sure," even if she doesn't look entirely convinced. At least all of those emotions in her eyes condense down to three. So that's a bit easier to deal with. Plus she's traveling with him after all, so he feels rather triumphant.

The TARDIS arrives in the sandstorm with an apprehensive beeping noise, to which he responds, "Oh, shut up." On closer consideration, though, he probably shouldn't have been so dismissive. There's not much to see here: no exciting aliens or beautiful stars. Just howling wind and who knows how many tonnes of sand. Clara looks a bit let down, which makes the Doctor get that shaky sad feeling he has around her sometimes. The one that compels him to just say "fuck it" and stop trying to top last week's adventure - because last week's adventure, whatever it was, will never be as good as just the two of them bumming around in the TARDIS together.

"So, uh, what d'you think?" the Doctor tries to ask her over the roar of the wind and the hiss of the sand.

Clara coughs and the TARDIS, wisely, shuts her doors. "It's sandy."

"Right." He makes a face at her, and she makes a face back. They do this sometimes. It's not flirting. Why would it be flirting? The atmosphere around them warms. Perhaps it's the TARDIS, trying to help him get over himself. Maybe it's the Clara-ness of Clara beckoning him on. Whatever it is, it makes him comfortable enough to lean in, just a bit. He gently brushes her hair out of her face, wipes away some of the sand that got caught there. She observes him carefully, as if daring him to go further. Which is when something in him short-circuits and he suggests, abruptly, that they really ought to be going.

"Where?" she asks, incredulous.

"Oh, back to Coal Hill. You didn't seem up for adventuring today, so I thought I'd make this a quick one."

He conceals himself behind the TARDIS interface, secretly grateful that he got anytime with her at all. When they return to her flat, she gives him a hug. He makes a show of trying to resist. Clara explains that she was just a bit stressed because she's giving her students a test tomorrow. Then she smiles up at him. "But y'know what? I think I feel better now. It was good to get away for a bit."

Yes. Good to get away, travel about the universe, no big deal. The Doctor, at your service. He's fine with this. Really. Then there are those moments of clarity that are abrupt and jarring. Clara, leaning over the mess of wires and conduits that they've got to abort before the lasers get them. Perfectly normal stuff, to envision your traveling companion saving your life. She does that on a regular basis. She's doing that right now, as a matter of fact: full teacher mode, no, pass me _that_ , Doctor, otherwise we'll both be killed. So why shouldn't he picture it in another scenario? Clara, leaning over him instead, asking him if he's all right. Then her full lips, wrapped around...

No. Definitely not normal.

He can't program himself right. Can't set it aside. Every action around her becomes magnified. He loses himself in a black hole of over-analyzing what he's said, what he's done. He feels weird in his own skin, almost like he's about to regenerate again. He tries to explain how much he wants her, but all that comes out is "You smell different." Which she does. It's messing with his head. Has she started wearing perfume? Why would she want to do that?

They do, eventually, go to Brighton. After all, he had a whole day planned: mapped out like a tourist, full of his jumbly enthusiasm. He's just so eager to learn more about humans and their history that he can't wait to absorb it in any way he can. Clara rolls her eyes and humours him through dry lectures at church after church. She really lights up, though, once they get down to the pier. They ride the Brighton Wheel together and the other tourists recede into a mass of blurry colour down below. She might be yelling something about how wonderful this is. He can't really be sure. Right now he's just focused on her. How her whole body is full of excited energy. How her wide face is glowing with a smile. He might be frowning, but really he's just trying to capture this moment and remember how it feels.

He'd never admit it, but this part of the day was thrown in just for her. After the Wheel, they relax at the pier, splitting a bag of warm donuts. Sea air mixed with grease from the kiosks waft over them. Gulls wheel overhead. Children shout in the distance. Colour and noise, the Doctor and Clara a fixed point in the midst.

Slow and donut-sated, they meander their way back up the pier and over rough cobblestones to where he hid the TARDIS in a little out-of-the-way alley. Levers and gears to take her back to her flat, just like always.

"So, this is you, then," he says, making a farewell gesture.

She shifts from foot to foot. Leans in. "Thanks for today," she responds, quiet against his mouth. When she kisses him, they both have their eyes open in a scared sort of way. Like oh, that wasn't supposed to happen.

He looks down at her. Her eyes have done the inflate-y thing again, but this time she doesn't seem about to scream at him. What she does seem about to do is kiss him again, so he lets her. This time they both close their eyes. It works a bit better.

"Is this something you want?" she asks. She's picked up on the way he's holding himself back again.  
"I don't know," he admits. Analytically, it seems like something he should want - he's been turning it over in his mind for so long. Her, like this. Post-adventure. Tired, just like he is. Her Clara-ness laid out again, and this time it doesn't scare him. At least, it scares him a bit less.

"Do you want me to teach you?"  
"Yes," he chokes out. He tries to be commanding. He _wants_ to be commanding, wants to take every part of his fantasies and make them real. He just has no idea where he would start. So she tells him that they're going to go slowly. She holds the beat for him, lets him undress her.

He fumbles with her shirt: endless buttons and frivolous bows, eventually slithering it off her shoulders into a polka-dotted pile. The zipper of her skirt is so tiny and hidden that he just gives up. She giggles, gets it off for him, and he feels relieved. It's like the room itself has let out a breath. In an odd way, it grants him permission. He rolls her tights down her legs and she laughs again as she steps out of them, tells him that his hands are tickling her.

Clara, naked, is rather spectacular. He thinks about swearing, decides that would be inappropriate, and utters a mental wolf-whistle instead. She catches him staring at her and he makes a face at her. She makes a face back. Ah. Balance restored.

She guides him into her bedroom - a place he's seen so many times, now laden with different meaning. All her tiny trinkets, the fragments of her life, scattered around them. The three mirrors on her dresser, reflecting them back.

"So. We're going to start like this," Clara says. She lies down on her bed and spreads her legs. Patient, she starts it off for him, holding his hand as she shows him how to touch her. He watches the way it wells up, coating his fingers. Both of them are breathing hard. He's curious and wants to taste her, so he bends down and ends up falling off the bed. She laughs at him, not unkindly. The Doctor is embarrassed but also happy that she's gentle with him, fine with waiting as he follows. He finally sorts himself out into a kneeling position in front of her. When he licks at her cunt for the first time, it nearly makes him short-circuit again. Because it's her - that Clara-ness that he's been chasing after. He has to taste it again so he does, over and over. He's overwhelmed with the scent of it. It's like the perfume she's taken to wearing, but tangier. Better.

He pulls away reluctantly. "There's an end point to this, yes?" he asks, looking up at her. He asks simply because it seems there should be - she can't be moving like this, asking him for more, if not for some intangible goal. She looks back at him with the twelve different emotions thing going on again. Most of those emotions register as blissful, although perhaps also a bit annoyed that he's stopped. "Sometimes for women - human women - it takes awhile," she explains, panting. So he keeps going because he'd really like to get that blissful look back on her face, even if it's making his jaw cramp. Using his fingers seems to help. It's like riding the Brighton Wheel with her all over again: his surroundings narrow down to just the two of them. The way she moans his name, growing more and more incoherent the longer he continues licking over her clit, down and back up, losing himself in a pattern that's no pattern at all. When she finally reaches that goal, it's both weird and wonderful - almost like she's undulating against his mouth. He can hear her distant whimper.

He lifts himself up to sit next to her on the bed. Stretches, his joints a bit stiff. Her hair is mussed and her face has gone from drawn-in to smudged. She smiles lopsidedly at him. "What do I taste like to you?" Clara asks, shyly curious.

He holds up his hand in offering. She opens her mouth around his fingers. The inquisitive slide of her tongue against the pads of his fingertips, the way her mouth sucks first quick, then slow. Her eyes closed, a tiny furrow between her brows as if she's concentrating, wanting to make sure she gets it all. He squirms a bit, remembering a rather similar fantasy. They'll get there eventually.

"So?" he asks quietly.

"Good." Her voice comes out small. They both know the word doesn't encompass enough.

He chuckles. "Clara, you have no idea."


End file.
